Imaginary Friends and Comfort Blankets

Arsenic Roulette

You know, it’s a certain kind of person that stays at a bar till after they close; the kind with dark secrets. Someone who’s past or present is as vile as the shots they take; at this bar they aren’t just vile, for the last poor soul left sitting, they’re deadly.
After making sure all the bottles were aligned and the glasses stocked, Ali unlocked the door and turned on the ratty old green OPEN sign that hung in the window; the one that used to stay green but now flickers in an odd pattern. Sunday night was the slowest days at the bar. Her mama always said that a man that stayed till closing on a Sunday was a ‘no good’ man. Over the years she had seen many a men and each of them had a story, so upon opening every Sunday she would pour out eleven shots of bourbon; one, the last, traced with an extra kick of her own. She reserved it for just the right story. Tonight she had four gentlemen that sat at the bar.
The first man was with a cheap woman. She had runs in her stockings and cabernet stained lips that complimented the remnants of a black eye. Ali put down two cocktail napkins. “Ladies first?”
“I’ll take anything red.” Her tone was a haughty mix of sarcasm and ignorance. She suddenly understood the black eye. Ali poured her a glass of watered down house wine. They wouldn’t be leaving her a tip anyway. She looked toward the man, “And you?”
“Bourbon”
Ali smiled; one down.
The second man sat at the bar alone. He already smelled of liquor before he sat down. He ordered a double shot of bourbon before Ali could even ask. She gave him two. He stared at a torn picture as he drank them. Three.
The third man constantly looked at the clock and often took out a handkerchief to clear the sweat from his brow. He jumped when Ali approached him. “You shouldn’t keep staring at that clock you know.”
“Why?” he scowled.
Ali shrugged, “Hasn’t worked in four years.”
He put the handkerchief away. “Bourbon, please.”
Ali handed him the shot. Four.
The fourth man she knew quite well. He was a regular. He had been coming around for years. During his college years he would come around often, mostly Friday and Saturday nights but lately things have taken a different turn. “Hey Bobby, what can I get ya?”
“Bourbon”
“Not your usual tonight?”
He looked down at his hands clasped together on the bar top. She gave him the shot. Five.
The second man fumbled for his wallet, placed a few bills down and walked out the bar almost knocking over a stool on the way out. Ali collects the money and takes away the empty shot glasses placing her close enough to overhear the couple’s conversation.
“You always think that you can control everything.”
“He owes me. You don’t think I will let him get away with this.”
“No, I have the black eye to prove it.”
“If you didn’t have such a smart mouth, then again it’s the only smart thing on you.”
“Screw you.” She chugs the rest of her wine and storms out.
He whistles for Ali. She couldn’t stand a man that didn’t know respect. She looks over and he is holding up the shot glass. She grabs him another one and clears the wine glass. Six.
“You good?” she asked the third gentleman. “I’ll take another, thanks.” Seven.
She slides over to Bobby. “What’s eating you?” No response. “I know better than anyone you won’t find the answer at the bottom of that glass.” “Not today Alyssa. I’ll take another one minus the commentary.” Ali handed him the shot and walked away. She would expect that from Mr. Heavy hand sitting at the other end but not from him. Eight.
“I suppose I should catch her before she gets her smart ass mouth in trouble. What do I owe ya?” He cashed out and left; no Tip.
Two were left sitting, one of them being Bobby. This made Ali feel uneasy.
“I suppose I’ll have just one more.” said the third gentleman. “His next one is on me.” Ali passed one to him and one to Bobby. They clinked. Nine and ten. He paid and left.
Ali sat with one shot and one man. “Go home Bobby. It’s late.” “You serve till two; one more then I’ll go.”
Ali held the shot and hesitated. She placed it in front of him, out of reach. “Okay, after you tell me why you are here and not home?” “Ali.” “I am the one with the shot. I don’t think you’re in a position to argue.” He sighs.
“You know the fire that happened the other day, the one up on Applegate Circle?” “Yeah it was all over the news. Killed three was it?” “That’s the one.” “They never figured out why. They suspected someone started—oh!” He reaches for the shot. “Ehay” Ali moves the shot further. “Was it an accident?” “The deaths? Yes but the fire no, not really. I wanted that building to burn. The owner has screwed half the town over. It was supposed to be empty.” “Didn’t your wife—“. “Yeah, she lost her brother in that fire. You saw her at the funeral; I can’t look her in the eyes knowing it was my fault.”
He reached for the shot again. Ali couldn’t do it. “Sorry, I’m closed. Go home!” She grabbed the shot. She wasn’t doing this for him. She was doing this for her half-sister. Bobby was her husband. He got up put down a one hundred bill. “You’re a stubborn pain in the ass, but thanks for listening Alyssa.
He walked out, on the way he passed the third gentleman walking back in. He walked up to Ali but bends down before reaching the bar, when he gets back up, he is holding his handkerchief.
“You lied.” He points to the clock.
She shrugs. “Would you look at that?”
“I lost this.” He sees Ali with the last shot. “You still serving?”
She hands it over. “It’s yours, already paid for.”
He took it and walks toward the door. He falls before he gets to it. Ali walks over to him and pulls out his keys and wallet. She looks at the ID. “Well Jimmy, guess I will never find out your story.”
She struggled as she dragged his body out to the parking lot. Only one car was parked there. She takes the keys and opened the trunk. Inside was a petite blonde tied up and gagged.
Ali smiled. Mama always was right.

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The Execution Writing Exercise

Gather four ordinary people and have them decide to put someone to death.
Simply watch this group decide who will die and why.
Choosing the victim is going to be hard:

The four of them looked uneasy; each of them tensed by the decision at hand.
“You know, I think it should be poor Billy who dies.” John was the first to speak.
“The little boy with cancer?” Grace muttered in shock. “Why not kill his mum? She is the one who will have the pain of surviving.” She had started with sarcasm but had presented a valid point.
“No, I agree with John. You would be sparing Billy’s pain as he gets worse.” stated Beatrice.
“But who’s to say he gets HIS pain spared?” rebutted Grace
“Well…we are!” said John
“Exactly, WE are.” stressed Grace.
John looked over to Grace, “Are you saying you don’t agree?”
“That’s exactly what I am saying. Suppose we kill a murder or criminal. Make the world a better place with the death. Not take away those who brighten it, even in their last days.” Grace tried to sound hopeful.
“But who’s to say which crime is the worst?” Beatrice was trying to keep up.
“Well…we are. Doesn’t have to be the worst, just one less is sufficient reason enough don’t you think?” asked John.
“I don’t.” This was the first time Archer spoke.
“Do you agree on the theory of sparing pain?”
“I don’t.” repeated Archer.
They all rolled their eyes and sighed as they seemed to be making progress.
“Then what is your theory?” questioned John.
“Perhaps we take a life before it has officially begun. “
“Are you suggesting we kill a baby?” Grace questioned, this time in total shock.
“Well it isn’t any more far-fetched then each of your ideas. Abortions happen every day. A newborn doesn’t even know it has a life. Taking it away would cause less of an impact.” Archer’s mind seemed to be elsewhere.
“It’s true. You can’t kill someone without making a rift in the universe. We are playing god.” stated John as the weight of this decision was becoming more apparent.
“Not a very fun game if you ask me.” Beatrice blushed. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
“But a newborn? Is there not a family?” Grace questioned ignoring Beatrice’s remark.
“There wouldn’t be. Perhaps an orphan. We would spare their pain and who knows, it might make the world a better place.” Archer tried to sound enthusiastic.
“Exactly, WHO knows? What if they are the next president?” Grace asked in final attempts of opposing this theory.
“We know. Billy, his mum, the criminal, all of these lives could have been avoided had they been killed as a newborn. Catch things before they start.” Archer was trying to convince himself more than them.
“How do we know which newborn?” Beatrice asked.
Archer spoke with decisiveness in his voice. “One who is an orphan and sick; the more insurance that we are doing the right thing.”
“I think it’s a little late to be worrying about the right thing.” Beatrice was starting to feel sick.
“Then its agreed.” said John.
“Yes, I suppose it its.” Archer muttered with a hint of bittersweet in his voice and a tear in his eye.
They all look at Archer. For the newborn is his niece. His sister and her husband had just died in a car crash. Their three month old daughter with cerebral palsy lived. It would be as if she had died in the car too.

Fast in my car!

Siren of Love

My real name is an infinitesimal notion, shielded protected.

Yesterday my name was a constitution of incandescent love.

Today my name is an apocalypse of the heart that eclipses the soul.

Tomorrow my name will be a mausoleum in which the demons lie.

I will chant a somniferous melody, put them to rest and transcend
the darkness to perch beside my mate.

1999!

Today while doing our nails there was a movie playing on the screen, they had three screens playing HBO and STARZ and we were trying to guess what movie was playing. It had Jennifer Aniston in it, so my moms friend guessed horrible bosses and I was like “no impossible that movie playing is old” and they asked “how do you know” to which I responded that with the camera quality and style of filming I’m guessing 90s or very very early 2000. (The media production degree starting to show) Her friend responded that sometimes they make movies to look old. I had to prove I was right so naturally I imdbed it. (Have the app on my phone) It was office space made in 1999. I refrained myself from bowing because of my awesomeness. You’re really going to argue that with me, trust me I may not be making films due to certain life limitations but all my time watching tv and movies are not a waste. However a friend of mine did point out that I was lame for not having already known it was office space…eh to each their own ;)

“We read books to find out who we are. What other people, real or imaginary, do and think and feel… is an essential guide to our understanding of what we ourselves are and may become.”
— Ursula K. Le Guin (via thegirlandherbooks)

(via shewillmove-mountains)

“Fiction is dangerous, Gaiman explained, because “it lets you into others’ heads, it gives you empathy, and it shows you that the world doesn’t have to be like the one you live in.” That imaginative leap into other minds and other worlds is surely the reason many of us read fiction.”
Why Neil Gaiman Thinks Fiction Is Dangerous, and Why I Think It’s Dangerous | Library Journal (via libraryjournal)

(via shewillmove-mountains)

imagine-your-fav-character:

Imagine a tiny version of your favorite character riding in your pocket and on your shoulder and making comments to you as you go about your day

(via forever-and-alwayss)

downloading-new-emotion:

commander-banana:

I have this problem where I would much rather read the story I’m trying to write than actually write it.

i’ve been looking for this post my entire life

(Source: commanderbanana, via hell-or-new-orleans)